I’m not really sure what it is I mean to accomplish by writing this.
On one hand, the need for any of us to document this moment as fans for posterity feels an inescapable responsibility. Invariably there will be someone new arriving to Tottenham, and to those of you to whom this will apply: Congratulations. You are one of few who can confirm reincarnation through you inability to escape the cycle because in every life you choose hell. Welcome to the club that takes more than its share at times and gives just enough to remind you why addiction is classified as a medical condition.
They say that you don’t choose your football club; your football club chooses you. For many that is meant less in the romantic way as in the generational claim the club has placed on your blood. You have my coundolescense for having been marked from birth, but this exercise isn’t for you.
This attempt at justification of poor life choices is for those of us who were greeted with warning of blatant masochism and happily answered Oh, yes, please! I’d go so far as to say it’s a trademark of romantics, this need for the glory to be earned. Others are happy to jump into the first shiny car shown only to find the dashboard scuffed and chipped. The faux-leather is riddled with cigarette stubs and better resembles an anthropomorphic ashtray from the seediest of dives. You can’t hear the screech of worn breaks over your own screams as the skidding into rails lets you know that tires as are as bald as the brain of the one driving.
Not us, though. We heard the groaning shocks. We saw the paint fading. We took a long, full pull of fumes from an engine running richer than than the devil’s chocolate from a crusting tailpipe and with plumes flaring out of either nostril proclaimed Glory to Tottenham Hotspur.
Okay, I’ve set enough of the scene. Let’s get to the heart of this matter. 4 July 2020 was when I came out to the world as Tottenham. It followed a period of informal courting by friends belonging to two other clubs whose methods reflected the mindsets of their clubs: my scouser friend was courteous in his answers to all my questions; the man city friend didn’t so much court my fandom as much shake her head in disbelief that I wasn’t already assimilated.
I can’t recall exactly what my Tottenham friend said. It may have been something along the lines of my experiences as a Dallas Cowboys fan would translate incredibly easily. More than that, however, I remember the freedom of choice. There was no condescension in his patience much less arrogance at my hesitancy— we’ll be here if you decide to join. Ultimately, it’s that we plus a bat cave that ultimately sold me. The concept of having a particular place to gather for celebration and mourning (the latter of which seems to have constituted the lion’s share). Being a fan of the local clubs was not something to choose, so any interaction with those fans—while pleasant and enjoyable at times— was more an extension of the family get-together. Tottenham is a family I got to choose.
Or the family that chose me, anyway. It’s been five years since I’ve donned the lily-white, and each and every time I think about it, my heart swells. Pondering the road not taken is a wonderful exercise in self-discovery because even though you can’t go back down that road, you can recognize patterns and qualities that may pop up again. Imagining myself wearing citizen blue feels like watching the finance-bro version of myself, and although singing YNWA doesn’t turn my stomach neither does it make my heart swell.
You’re likely asking how a heart can feel so full for a squad whose trophy case has been so empty? That’s a fair question— if you’re a five year old that only eats the frosting off of cupcakes. Sports is about winning, absolutely, that’s why we join the ranks, claim colors, and throw up finger horns and finger guns and a number of other questionable hand signals. The path to glory is every bit as important as the trophy that is lifted. And Tottenham has no idea how electrical currents work.
Though my sample size pales in comparison to even the next longest tenured Spur, I feel my five years with six managers—Mason absolutely counts— is enough to give me an idea of what the Tottenham experience is. In fact, since I didn’t get the dizzying highs Pochettino provided and only came in to pick up the flag for the tailspin Mourinho seemingly was in. The following missteps of Nuno and odd adventure that was Conte would leave me feeling pangs of something I couldn’t name. It was a despondent hope that always reaches for the sun knowing that my fingers would never be able to close on those rays. But that was half the beauty. Suffering is also a gift, an alert that there can and will be a time without pain.
When Ange arrived, I had nothing to really think. Whatever hope Conte inspired in me had been secondhand as my football knowledge was surface level. No one knew what to make of this Postecoglou guy, though. Those who knew ball had heard his name at the periphery of the sport, but those could just as easily be rumors. We couldn’t even agree on a nickname. Resigned as we were to a period of rebuild, we figured may as well give him a shot. He plays attacking football, an interesting style that had been missing from the club; and in any case he might set a nice foundation for another to take over, someone with more experience and higher pedigree.
Ange-ball delivered incredible moments, sure. I will never forget the Sheffield United match where VDV had the screaming winner. The limbs, the way no player knew what to do with themselves. I watched it with the Chicago chapter and remember bruising my lip because I had jumped for a hug at the first person I saw who happened to be taller than me and so I felt the embrace of his shoulder first. We began scoring like mad, and the philosophy of a shootout style took hold and even losses didn’t bother me. That loss against Chelsea also holds a particular place in my heart. If we go down to five men, mate, we’ll have a crack. Big Ange had arrived.
His second year arrived, and we were all buzzing. We didn’t make UCL, but we were in the top half of the table with an attractive style of ball we couldn’t get enough of. And there was his track record of winning things in his second season. We had begun picking out which trophy to win. The league was gone by December, but there were three other trophies there for the taking.
Then the injuries. Those fucking injuries. Our season became as much about the players down as the trophies up for grabs. Then injuries outpaced trophy possibilities: now three; now two; now one. Shackled while limping, leaning on fossils like Forster and babies in Gray and Bergvall and Moore, there was simply no way Big Ange could do it. We couldn’t blame him, of course— the Tottenham curse is bigger than any man, mate. Thanks for your time, but Pep couldn’t pull this out of the gutter. And it’s true. Pep would’ve drowned, the dome of his shiny head the final parting gift of a futile struggle.
But this is Big Ange, mate. This is Big Ange-ball, and we’re gonna have a crack at it. This man, with face to the sky in defiance of the lord and the entire football world, fixed his eyes imperiously and with bollocks that would make Cthulu blush said, “Let me correct myself. I don’t usually win things in my second year. I always win things.”
Fuck right the fuck off.
They were by no means pretty. There were times it was a troll dressed in tatters without any idea of how makeup works. Forster, the fossil, the Oldman Ent of a rooted tree that came in and did a job when we needed it. The kids in Moore and Gray and Bergvall who all came in with an arrogance that only youth can provide and kept us buoyed on such narrow shoulders through sheer grit and Fuck you I want it more because it doesn’t know any better.
And Son. Dear Sonny. Captain, my Captain. The anchor of belief and loyalty. The man who watched this thing lose rudders and oars and torn sails hurdle into the storm and said, “Alright, lads, I’ll take it from here.”
AZ Alkmaar gave us fits, but Odobert and Maddison proved equal to them. Frankfurt made us define trench warfare. I’m still not really sure what a Bodo/Glimt is.
Manchester United. I’ve never had a strong opinion on this club one way or another. I know they were a giant, but that was years ago. Seemed they were mostly trading on history these days. If I was terrified at all (and god knows my stomach churned every day before the final), it was only in anticipation. I had never learned to fear United, though to hear it from them, it’s the only thing I should ever do as Tottenham.
We all gathered at our temple. Food laid out a plenty, the drinks flowing. Some reds arrogantly found their way in and tried to make themselves a plate until shamed to put it down. No food for reds. The banter flew back and forth. We had nothing to lose. Even the zero trophies knock had lost its edge. I don’t remember the BJ goal, just the collective released that rocked the room and doubtless sent shivers up the spines of those stupid reds. We had withstood their haymakers early on and went into halftime one to the good.
The second half didn’t seem an attempt at hanging on for dear life. In fact, we wanted more. The fear of god was not enough— we needed to be the sword of the lord. This sort of pride tends to backfire, and if not for the holy glory that is VDV, we might have tasted our own blade. But Micky is SO fine.
The moment we all feared never arrived. The moment we needed did. Final whistle. Limbs and drinks and limbs and drinks. Hug a stranger. Kiss your friend. We did it.
In the moment, I wasn’t too sure of what the feeling was. I just knew I was feeling. It isn’t until I can reach back now as I write this that I understand it as pride. It’s pride in one’s own confidence and resolution. It’s standing your ground and saying, “Fuck you. Move me.” It’s what faith is all about. The promise fulfilled. What gives glory it’s beauty and grace. Glory is about knowing why you suffer, and understanding why you deserve to see the sun at the end.
It’s Tottenham.